Friday, June 10, 2011


The Frames of brick model my perspective.
I see in tones of brownish red, black, tan...
The sky,
the sun as it rises between the high-rises to my east.
I see planes overhead, their dull drone bouncing to and fro,
my frames.
I see the clouds, tinged, shifting;
I see them framed from the heavens,
brought to earth and within seeming reach,
just climb high enough
on a side of the frame.
I see faces of colors and shapes, variety abundant in this great... frame.
A frame of mind... a state of mind... New York.

Sunday, June 5, 2011

Contemplations in Emergence: innards

The minutes drift away. And then the hours. The mind lays dormant, heaving sighs of fained exhaustion. The world lies before it, yet it cowers in the corner of its own matter. The tangible mocks it, the metaphysical burns it, the existential laughs at it – as it lies in wait for the spark that can never come.
A broken bone will heal with time, a torn muscle will slowly crawl back to its place, the mind is fickle and too weak to recover, so in its decrepitation it will lie.
The hums of life awaken it at times, a ring, a knock, a chirp… but drowsily will it slip back into its doubtful place – content with its subsistence.
Bogged down by the truths it cannot escape, by its own perceptions of what those truths may be – by its fear of what may become truth.

The spirit burns and cannot sit still. It is alerted to potential life and drains itself of energy before it can be realized. Its so much easier for the spirit, for it dreams, and dreams are happy in their vacuous plane. There is no hard battle with the past, the spirit only sees ahead, it does not bother with books of history and the warnings and lessons contained therein. The spirit flies in rarefied air, the better for to soar, to glide unimpeded into the days that rarely come. It knows its immortality and is not afraid, it knows its omniscience and is content – when cast aside our shell it will, so only lighter will be its flight.

Poor soul, stuck atween the nether and the sky. How to reconcile the dust and the wind? The shadow and the light? It’s wise, the soul, slow moving for the burden of eternity which it carries, yet blind to the emptiness it sees afore it. Connected as it is with all that makes us, as it came and has shifted up to this moment to combine and become what we see and feel, it is useless in its impotent quest to explain what could be. Though it presides as best it can over the pulls of the mind and spirit, it too is not unbiased. It knows the truth we share, the existence of which we are made, and its agenda is all to clear: preserve the flux. Let not the parts inbreed, but shift and change and grow wiser for newly acquired experience.

And so the battle rages and we are left to spectate to our delight, unless of course we make the mistake of becoming aware…

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

Growing Up

I want to tell you a story. Will you listen?

I want to tell a story that is as much true as it is not, as much about me or you as anyone else.

It’s the story of growing up, which seems is one that has no end. Remember when we would look up and admire and wish to someday become the adults? Do you remember seeing them hold on weary shoulders the weight of our world? How food miraculously appeared on the table, how clothes found their way into the dresser, how the winter nights were bright and warm? It was true, was it not? The baseball gloves came, so did the bikes… not all at once and not every year, but they came. A soccer ball one year, and when we grew a little older, these magicians would produce a photo camera for us to mess with. It may not have been bought new, it certainly was not an SLR, but it allowed you to take pictures and capture the silly moments of your silly life. Do you remember little league? The basketball in winter, the baseball in summer… maybe your cleats were not new, maybe they were not the height of fashion, maybe they weren’t cleats at all, but play on the grass you did and you did not whine that it was slippery did you? You did not care whether it was the right gear. You cared that you were on a field and that at some point a ball would come hurling towards you, and no matter the sun, rain or fear of embarrassment, you were going to catch that ball! Maybe the family would be watching, maybe they would not be there, but catch that ball you must!

They can’t always be there, they’re adults, they have places to go, things to do, money to make – how else will we get the basketball we always wanted? Everything they do is so important, they can’t even take naps! They might pass out on the couch in front of the TV after dinner on Friday night. But they can’t just take a nap whenever they want. Perhaps they want to go to a show, or to a fancy dinner… whatever those grownups like to do. But they don’t go too often, do they? Who will watch you? Who will feed you? If they spend that money on dinner, how can they take you to the lake this summer? Who has the strength to get all dolled up and drive into the city anyway? By the time they get home and shower and change and feed you and make sure you start on your homework and remind you to finish it and not watch too much TV and brush your teeth… what play starts, what restaurant serves food, that late? Can you blame them if they yell, get upset over little things, punish you in unreasonable ways for actions you thought rather reasonable indeed? Can you blame them for being upset at the quality of the food they eat, when all they can smell is the grease from the industrial coffee machines they’ve been fixing, or from the saturating odor of the pizza they have been delivering, or the dry cleaning chemicals they have been sweeping, or the floor wax they spent hours buffing? Can you blame them for not having much to say to you, when they see the privilege in which you live, of which you are unaware, the method by which you attained it inconsequential and irrelevant to you? When they gave it all up, when they turned piles of pennies into dinners, when they forwent their own happiness for your sake… can we blame them at all?

Adults. Grownups. Responsibility. Consistency. Sacrifice. Selflessness. Are these words not alien to us now? How many years do we spend bobbing up and down the sea of “possibility”; no anchor, sorry, we forgot it in our parents basement. The fabric of society is not so relevant, only our happiness, our quest to “find ourselves”, is what matters. Try this – fail. Try that – fail. Go back to school. Can’t find a job? No problem. Try again, and again, and again. Fail, fail, fail. Why?

Because there are no consequences when we fail. We live in a cushion, in the center lane, in the warmth of the encompassing hearth. 30 year old children who spend freely, get hussied up, give ourselves away, expect little if nothing at all from others, uproot as easily as we switch jobs, careers, partners, images, styles. Slaves to our own desires and inconsistencies; fickle like a plastic bag in the wind.